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The ascent continues, and I feel a subtle shift in pressure as we climb higher into the sky. As the plane levels off, the flight attendants begin their rounds, offering refreshments and assistance to the passengers. One of them, a young woman with a friendly demeanor, approaches our row with a tray of drinks.
“Good afternoon,” she chirps, her eyes lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary. “Would you like something to drink?”
I smile politely. “I’ll have a glass of water, please.”
The flight attendant pours a glass of water and hands it to me, her fingers brushing against mine briefly. I thank her, and she moves on to the next row. I can’t help but notice a hint of disappointment in her eyes as she walks away, as if she had hoped for more than just a glass of water.
I notice that she stared at the man sitting beside us. He didn’t even flinch.
Turning my attention back to Alex, I realize that he’s watching the flight attendant’s retreating figure with a puzzled expression. I suppress a chuckle. The innocence of a child is truly something to cherish.
“Are you thirsty, Alex?” I ask, diverting his attention.
He nods eagerly. “Yes, Aunt Amber.”
I signal for the flight attendant, who returns promptly. “Could we please have a glass of apple juice for my nephew?” I request.
“Of course,” she says, her smile returning as she retrieves a glass of apple juice. Alex takes it with a wide grin, and I thank the flight attendant once more.
With his juice in hand, Alex seems more at ease now, sipping it slowly as he continues to gaze out of the window. I smile, marveling at his resilience. Despite the challenges he’s faced at such a young age, he remains curious and hopeful, ready to embrace this new chapter in his life.
In a minute, Alex gulps down the apple juice and lets out a satisfying sigh. I laugh and he smiles back at me. Turning his face, he stares wide-eyed out of the window, his tiny fingers raised toward the glass as if trying to touch the clouds. His sense of wonder is infectious, and I can’t help but smile.
“Look, Alex,” I say, pointing out of the window. “We’re above the clouds now.”
His eyes light up with sheer delight as he gazes at the fluffy white clouds beneath us. It’s a magical sight, one that brings a sense of wonder to even the most jaded traveler. I watch as Alex’s fear begins to dissipate, replaced by curiosity and awe.
I glance at the man in the window seat beside me, whose stoic demeanor hasn’t changed since we boarded the plane. It’s clear that he’d prefer to keep to himself during this flight, and I respect his choice.
I’m seated with Alex snuggled beside me as we soar through the clouds. I turn my head to glance at the other passengers, curious about the stories that accompany each face.
That’s when I spot a man, probably in his thirties, walking down the aisle. He’s holding the hand of a little girl who looks to be around Alex’s age. My heart skips a beat as I watch them, their connection palpable even from a distance.
The way he affectionately holds her hand, fingers entwined with hers, speaks volumes. It’s a simple gesture, but one that resonates deeply with me. The way they navigate the crowded plane together, his protective stance, and the way she looks up at him with trust and adoration—it’s a beautiful sight.
I am genuinely captivated by the scene unfolding before me. It’s like a glimpse into a world I’ve longed to know—a world where a father’s love is a cherished gift. A world I’ve only dreamed of.
But as quickly as the warmth washes over me, a shadow creeps in—a memory, a painful one. I’m reminded of my own father or rather, the absence of one. My mother’s tales were always a mixture of sadness and anger. She told me he didn’t want me, that he ran away when he found out she was pregnant.
But I knew the truth, deep down. I was the result of a one-night stand, a fleeting moment of passion. He probably didn’t even know about me. Yet, I couldn’t help but hope, against all reason, that someday I’d see him, that he’d want to know his daughter. Mother had Jessica with one of her boyfriends, who’s still alive. It’s different thinking of it, that Jess knew her father, and I did not.
The pain of fatherlessness has been a constant companion throughout my life, an ache that never truly fades. It’s what drove me to be fiercely independent, to build a life for myself and now for Alex. And it’s also, sort of, what has fueled my desire for this adventure in Japan, a place where I hope to find new beginnings for both of us.
I’m transported back to my childhood, a time when innocence mingled with heartache in a way that only a child can comprehend. The memory is vivid, as if etched into my very soul.
It was a sunny day, the kind that promised laughter and joy. My school had organized an open day, an event where parents were invited to witness the fruits of their children’s labor. It was a day filled with anticipation, a day I had yearned for.
However, that day brought me immense sorrow. My lack of a father’s presence at the open day, combined with my mother’s consistent absence when I needed her the most, weighed heavily on my heart.
As the school buzzed with excitement, my friends chatted animatedly about their parents’ impending arrival. They spoke of how proud their fathers were of them, how their mothers had taken the day off work just to be there.
I, too, wanted to share in that joy, but my reality was different. I had woven a web of lies, telling my friends that my father traveled a lot for work, that he couldn’t make it to the open day. It was easier to fabricate a story than to admit the truth—I didn’t have a father who cared enough to be there.
But that day, as I watched my friends’ fathers stroll through the school gates, a lump formed in my throat, and tears welled up in my eyes. I felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness, a hollowness that threatened to consume me.
The classroom presentations, the art displays, the performances—all of it was a blur as my thoughts swirled in turmoil. I excused myself from my friends and retreated to a quiet corner of the schoolyard.
When I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, I cried. I cried for the father I wished I had, the father who would have held my hand and beamed with pride at my accomplishments. I cried for the mother who was too self-absorbed to care, too wrapped up in her own world to be there for her daughter.
